At one point, on the other side and near some riverbank warehouses, Seius dropped off his mother-in-law so she could go home. We passed out under the Portuensis Gate. I started to feel apprehensive because I knew this road divided about a mile beyond the city, with one branch heading off into quite hilly, empty country. We had made no attempt to find out how far we were to be taken. I even muttered to my cousin that we were like a couple of daft girls, blithely allowing ourselves to be hijacked by someone who might intend us harm.
“But he seemed so nice!” lisped Marcia. “We never thought he could be like that!”
We had told no one where we were going, or with whom. Only Seius and his mother-in-law knew. She was an unknown quantity, but definitely owed him favours. Would that include ignoring a habit of preying on women? As the cart rattled on, I miserably cursed myself as gullible, while I wondered if Seius, with his convenient work as a carrier, might be the killer …
This is the curse of long-term violence. It causes loss of trust in society. It impacts on freedom of movement, particularly women’s. Perfectly decent people come under wrongful suspicion when they try to help others. Perfectly sensible people are gripped by unnecessary fear.
As we rode out, I realised how much land Julius Caesar must have owned. His Transtiberina gardens covered a large acreage within the modern city boundary, yet they extended out beyond the gate, too, along the road to Portus. I had never really considered this previously. When my family went to the coast we generally used the left-bank route, on the Via Ostiensis. Yet here we were, still among extensive beds and features, once owned by the mighty Julius—therefore still tended by official gardeners.
When at last we reached what Seius said was our destination, Marcia and I were so stiff, we could barely climb down. Seius had behaved politely throughout. I no longer feared for our safety, although I did suspect this might have been a wasted journey.
The Via Portuensis, like all major routes out of the city, has tombs stationed along it. Seius had brought us to where his mate, the one who wanted the stones, was building a wall around a garden at a mausoleum. The place had some similarity to the family tomb at Fidenae where we had placed the ashes of Tiberius’s sister. This was built as a small columbarium that must contain a couple of short rows of niches for urns of ashes, maybe two rows of five each side. It was designed like a miniature temple, with a triangular pediment over the lowish doorway. Adjacent was a kitchen garden, and pear, cherry and walnut trees. A blackbird warbled his territorial challenge from somewhere high up. The tomb guardian was creating a dry-stone wall to mark out the boundary. We were told he intended to inhabit the wall with land snails, an extra food source.
He went into a huddle with Seius, both clearly still nervous that we knew they had taken the site material. Marcia went across to reassure them we had no interest in old rocks. I heard the friend tell her he had seen nothing of our runaways. Presumably they had jumped off the cart unnoticed, so they must have travelled on farther down the road. But he never saw them and had not heard any mention from neighbours.
We had come the distance so I looked around anyway. It was me, therefore, who investigated a little toolshed. I could see only spades, hoes and shears, though at the back was a low pile of sacking. Something else dramatically caught my attention. Large numbers of flies were zooming about. There was a gruesome smell. The tomb guardian, busy with his wall and so not using his gardening tools, must have missed the fact that recently his shed had had occupants.
“Primulus,” I murmured into the warm, humming darkness. At the thought they were ever here, I went into shock. I recognised that sickly odour. We were about to uncover horror. “Galanthus. It’s me, Flavia Albia.”
I thought calling was pointless. Then I saw a slight movement; my heart throbbed with panic. Someone whimpered. Afraid of entering the shed, I shouted to the others to help me.
Under the sacks were both my missing boys. Galanthus was brought out first. Seius gently pulled him from the shed. He was filthy, starved, terrified, unable to stand, unable to speak coherently. He began spilling tears as he was laid on the ground outside, shielding his eyes from the light.
Inside the shed, I heard the tomb guardian exclaim. Gingerly he towed something out, using a sack. We all recoiled. Primulus was dead. He might already have been dead when Galanthus was first seen carrying him around.
For four days, Galanthus had been crying here, alone in the dark with the corpse.
XLI
“Galanthus, you are safe. It’s all over. We are here. We have come to take you home.”
“No one bad will hurt you.” Marcia understood, even though she might not realise the significance of the deep mark on the boy’s neck, where I knew someone must have wrenched away his amulet. “He cannot harm you. We won’t let him.”
The boys must have met the killer. He had grabbed them. He presumably intended to kill them; he had certainly taken trophies. He must have been responsible for Primulus eventually dying, even though for some reason he had let them escape. Galanthus was too traumatised to tell us.
The men reacted faster than I expected. I did not have to ask for help. Perhaps the loss of Methe gave them a greater feeling for the boys’ plight, but they were basically good people. Having known trouble themselves, they did not hesitate.
Two things were decided. Galanthus became highly agitated when he thought he might have to go back through Caesar’s Gardens on the cart. Seius would find someone known to him who ferried goods across the river; they would take Galanthus home by boat instead. Seius hurried off to organise this.
While he was gone, the guardian offered to me that, if he was paid a small amount to cover fuel, he would cremate the body here. He would find a niche for Primulus within this garden tomb. I had come out with money; I gave him all I had, promising more.
I made a quick scan of the body, which was already decomposing. The dead boy was still clothed but he, too, had lost his amulet. I could not tell whatever else had been done to him.
On the whole I am not squeamish. It was horrible even to look at the corpse. The distinct smell of human putrefaction is unforgettable; to have known the deceased makes you gag even more. The horror would stay with me.
While his brother’s pyre was being built, we did our best to save the survivor. Galanthus was stripped of his own stinking garments, wrapped in an old man-sized tunic, then carried by Seius to the wharf. Among the many laden riverboats that are towed up from the coast, smaller vessels nip like flies. Gigs surged under oar. Sail-rigged shallops dragged in endless tacks under the infinitesimal Tiber breezes. Seius had brought us to a man with a small dinghy. He stepped aboard, still carrying the boy. Marcia clambered in with them.
I waved them off, urging them to hurry, then stayed to see the pathetic corpse of Primulus start on its final journey. Sweet herbs from the garden were strewn on the small funeral pyre. The guardian brought me winter flowers to lay beside the body. For the second time in less than a week I stood listening to the crackle of a funeral fire, lost in drear thoughts.
The dancing boys looked about twelve, so Primulus had still been a child. Others had corrupted him in the past, but I took responsibility now. I had barely known him, yet my sadness began with what any good mistress would feel for her slave, dying so young and so terribly. From my own past life as a street child arose deep pity for his fears and his lack of love. I grieved that I had not been able to provide him with better.
I stayed until the flames died. The tomb guardian found me an old terracotta pot. It had a rough surface and a large chip out of the rim but was suitable. I collected the few ashes into this simple container. We placed the pot in an unused compartment inside the tomb. I was told that the family who had built it were generous; nobody would object to their ancestors being joined by one more sad little spirit.
I promised to have a plaque made: “To Primulus from his brother Galanthus.” This presumed that his brother survived.
* * *
> It was the end of the day. The guardian drove me to where Seius lived near the city gate, in order to return the cart for him. He offered to escort me on my way, but he had done enough. I bade him farewell. Then I was by myself at last.
My journey home would be on foot. I had to go to the Sublician Bridge, crossing Caesar’s Gardens first. No one else was about. I was on my own. Larcius and the men would have left for home, unaware I was in the area. Twilight was gathering.
It became difficult to see very far. If anyone was lurking behind arbours or trees, I would not detect his presence until he chose to step out. Birds had stopped singing; there were no hunting owls. I found my way along dark, silent paths where most people would have been deeply apprehensive.
I felt no fear that evening. I walked steadily, my head bare and all my senses alert. I was watching, listening, aware of every breeze or twitch of a leaf; I might have caught even the faint throb of a moth’s wings. My jaw set and my heart was on fire.
It might have been stupid to walk alone but I made my own safety. I walked with a purpose that would have been a warning not to interfere with me.
Let him come. Such men are cowards. They rely on surprise and violence. They find their power in fear. Seeking vulnerable victims, this man would not touch me.
I was ready, though. If the pervert had been brave enough to strike, I was so angry about my boys, I would have taken him on. And I believe I would have killed him.
XLII
He might have been there. I never saw him. Quite right, you abomination: don’t risk it.
I crossed back on the narrow Sublician Bridge, fighting for space with pack animals. I found Serenus waiting for me at the Aventine end. After Marcia had reached home and told of our adventure, he had come out with a lantern. As soon as we met, he called up a commercial chair, so I was able to have my weary bones carried up the steep slope to our street. All around I heard people behaving crazily as they convinced themselves, far too early, that Saturnalia had begun.
Once home, I hurried indoors. The ground floor was lit to welcome me. Gratus appeared, finger to lips. He pointed to a corner of the courtyard where, in the glow of an oil lamp, I saw an unexpected sight. Curled up on what I recognised as Dromo’s sleep-mat I made out our rescued boy. Someone had him wrapped in a blanket. In front of him squatted Dromo. He had a bowl in one hand, from which he was feeding Galanthus with broth off a small spoon, a mouthful at a time, making him wait between each one. His gestures were as firm as those of a parental bird poking food into a chick’s beak.
“The lad was starved almost to death,” Gratus murmured. “Fornix gave him soup, he wolfed it, but after so long unfed, it exploded out of him. Dromo decided of his own accord to fetch a bucket. He got him washed and even cut his hair. Now he has taken over. For some reason the boy lets him.”
I nodded, less amazed. This was why Tiberius never got rid of Dromo: on the verge of driving us completely wild, that daft lump would occasionally startle us with his soft heart. He was a few years older than Galanthus, giving him senior’s rights. And anyone helpless would make him passionate on their behalf. I had seen it before when he was moved by a tragic story. People are complex, so why not slaves too?
I sat in the courtyard, resting. It was peaceful for once. Marcia had gone out. After she delivered Galanthus, she had taken it upon herself to remove the scrolls, transferring them to my parents’ house ready for Father to auction them. Suza, my maid, Marcia’s new friend, had gone along to help. I had no energy to worry about them being out at night. In any case, Mother might make them stay over.
Eventually Galanthus fell asleep. Dromo came across to me with the soup bowl. Barley walked up to look at him appealingly, but once she saw Dromo diving in she knew better than to wait. “I had better eat this up. We don’t want waste.”
“No! Well done, Dromo. You are looking after the poor lad so kindly.” Dromo was lapping noisily. “Has he said anything about what happened to him?”
“He just shivers. Something has driven him crazy.”
“Yes, something horrible must have happened. When he settles, he may talk to you. He is very, very frightened, but you seem to have won his trust.”
“It’s up to me, then!” Dromo had his mix of self-assurance and complacency.
“Yes, it may well be. I want to catch whoever did this. Anything you can gently find out from him may help me.”
“This is important.”
“Extremely important. Don’t bombard him with questions, just encourage him to tell you what he remembers. See if you can tice out his terrible adventure.”
“Like when you ask people questions?”
“Yes, Dromo.”
Dromo liked that.
“Where has the other one gone?” he demanded abruptly.
No one had told him yet. I decided to be straight. “This is not nice, I’m afraid. Primulus is dead, Dromo. The reason I came home later than the others is that I made sure he had a funeral.”
“Was he murdered?”
“Yes, I believe he was.”
“Did Galanthus kill him?”
What?
“No, I am sure he did not. From what I can tell, Galanthus was attacked too, though not hurt so badly. He tried to rescue his brother, but he could not save him.”
“He’s got a huge lump on the back of his head,” Dromo told me suddenly. His pudgy face was serious. All this mattered to him, particularly his own role in it. “I saw the lump when I was washing his hair. Part was bleeding because of washing him, but I wasn’t rough.”
“No, of course.”
“I’m a good body slave. I know how to do cleaning. I had to—the condition he was in was disgusting. Fornix gave me some stuff to put on the cut. That stopped it.”
Dromo handed me the empty bowl and well-licked spoon. “I’ve finished. Now I shall go over there and stay by him. You’d better not need me for anything else. I need to watch whether he’s all right. If he wakes up frightened, I can tell him not to be.”
“You are such a good person. I shall tell your master all you have done. He will be very proud of you.”
“Yes, I expect he will. Oh—I remember something. When I found that lump on his head, I asked how he got it. He only cried out, ‘The man!’ Then he went all sobbing and scared again.”
“That’s the kind of detail I’d like you to prise out, if you can, Dromo. Can you try getting him to say what man it was?”
“I expect I can do that.”
“Do your best. Galanthus is on your mat, I see. Do you want me to find you another one?”
“No, thank you. I’ll just squash on there with him. Then it will be easier to look after him if he’s crying.”
So, Dromo returned to his charge. Barley, who must be a kind-hearted dog, went over and lay down with them.
* * *
I went to the kitchen, where Gratus and Fornix fussed over me. I was ready to have other people take command, though I wished it was Tiberius.
That night I left my bedroom door open onto the upper balcony. I could only sleep lightly. From time to time I heard Galanthus start awake and begin mithering. Dromo would talk to him. As I listened to make sure I wasn’t needed, his dull voice and his banal observations sounded comforting.
Gratus had a room on the other side of the balcony; at one point I heard a creak from the folding door, as if he, too, was monitoring the scene below. He normally put out all the lamps, to save oil and prevent fires. Tonight he had left a small one down there with them. So, for the first time after his ordeal, Galanthus was neither alone nor in the dark.
XLIII
Dromo did well. He looked after that traumatised lad as if a baby had been left with him. He could be heard like a grave little girl, muttering privately as she acted out domestic scenes with her precious doll. Galanthus was washed, combed, dressed in a patched tunic that Gratus found, fed his breakfast, given water. Most importantly, he was talked to. Intermittently, he seemed to answer.
&n
bsp; The lads stayed in their corner, only moving when Dromo deemed it time to lead his charge to the latrine. Their voices were too low to hear. I left them to it. Even when Marcia came home, she stood back.
“Two days!” she announced.
“To what?”
“Selling your fake scrolls.”
“Do I care?”
“You will, when I tell you Falco’s auction estimates. Apparently the Didymus will get a huge boost from his previous notoriety, while nothing by Philadespoticus has ever appeared on sale before, so that’s a fantastic draw.”
I snorted. “I think we know why! He is rubbish.”
“Exclusive and sought-after, that well-known dud category. Your mad father has convinced himself that works by well-known forgers sell for much more than the best originals. People love crime. He wants to invent a name for the faker, build him up, attract public awareness by saying his scrolls are contemporary masterpieces, antiques of the future. I concede that two days will be tight to achieve this fantasy. He’s going to say, ‘Look around today. Who is keenly watching progress on these lots? Perhaps the brilliant mind that created these exquisite scrolls is present in this portico…’ The best thing, Albia darling, will be if you can find the crook, have him sued for squillions and make him a celebrity.”
“Added value.” I knew how my father’s mind worked. “Watch him go: ‘I am seeking high hundreds here. Start me at a thousand, if you please!’ He’s had me doing it on the podium before now.”
“Me too. You know, he thinks a woman taking the sale enhances the bids. Will you go to the scroll auction?”
“Looks like I’ll be too busy finding this murderer.” To me, that was a damn sight more important.
Marcia shrugged. “By the by, Falco is saying ‘he’ for the famous faker, even though you and I think ‘she.’ He doesn’t want it to be Tuccia. Forgery from a woman means less profit.”
“I don’t see why!”
The Grove of the Caesars Page 20